


The Stain on the Carpet

by NoraPenblood



Series: Empty Houses and Unlocked Doors [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death-Fic, Drabble, M/M, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoraPenblood/pseuds/NoraPenblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That stain is you. Your blood. Your brain, your brilliant, perfect brain staining your precious fucking carpet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stain on the Carpet

The rain is hitting the metal roof with a sound like unending gunfire. I wish it was gunfire, I wish it was a bomb exploding, I even wish it was the police coming the finally bring me to justice. It is not. It is just the rain, the dull, dreary rain that has fallen nonstop for the past week and even further back as far as I can remember.

There’s a stain on the carpet. It’s burgundy and terrible against the dirty, pale rug and I can’t keep my eyes off of it. That stain where you landed. That stain is you. Your blood. Your brain, your brilliant, perfect brain staining your precious fucking carpet. I remember the exact moment I lifted you up in my arms, watched that stain begin to form as you bled out. You were dead by then but all I could think was that if you saw a stain on the carpet you’d kill me.

I want to leave, but I can’t. I’m rooted in the ghosts of this place, the terrible, wonderful memories of things we’d done and things you’d said. I’m stuck remembering you and me, shagging on the couch here, your face as it flickered with brilliant, raw bliss for just a moment before reordering yourself. You would stand up on wobbly legs, wink at me, tell me I was a good kitten and fix your suit like nothing had happened. I loved it. I loved the way you wiggled when you got excited about a game, I loved the way you pinned me to the wall with a knife to my throat, the rage burning with madness in your eyes. I remember every little thing about you, as I forget myself.

Just lying here on the couch, staring at that stain. My mind is falling in on itself without you here to stimulate it. I needed you and you left me. We were the same, you said so yourself. We are the two halves of one greater being, and now that you are gone I am dying from the loss of my severed limb.

I slide off my seat eventually, dragging my numb self to the liquor cabinet. We’d lived here for so long, you consistently, me coming and going as my games wavered and grew, that we know the place like the back of our hands. Of course, that we is now just I, and even as I know every corner of the place it seems new and terrifying without your mad laughter ringing in each room. I fancy I can hear you still, murmuring ‘Bring me a drink, Sherly.’ as I walk away.

The thought makes me want to fall down and never bother getting back up.

I pull open the glass doors, gazing unseeing at your array of over-priced wines and vodkas, everything an alcoholic could dream of. Of course, we were no alcoholics, we had taste and class and our madness was kept on tight leashes, used to our advantage. No petty addiction could overtake you, even as I struggled between cocaine and my own mind.

I take the first bottle, something copper-coloured that promises to burn. I don’t care. I want it to burn. I return to the place I lie on the couch, my new permanent home. Food has proven unnecessary and I know all my bones are jutting out like I’m some living skeleton. I don’t care about that either. I want to die so I can run from the hellish monotony of staring at the place you last lay your head.

The drinking comes easy, burns like an acid as I down a quarter of the bottle in one go. It makes me feel fuzzy around the edges, but it’s not enough to distract from the stain on the carpet or the brutal cannibalism occurring in my brain. I’m killing myself by doing nothing at all to stop, to save myself.

Leaving is an unbearable thought. I could start a new game, perhaps find that John Watson again, tell him I’m not dead, fake being normal. But no, I couldn’t. I don’t want to see normal people, the stupid, ignorant concern on their unintelligent faces would make me sick.

I much prefer torturing myself day in and day out, listening to the rain hit the roof and not moving but to drink and drink and drink. I’ll run out eventually, but hopefully by then it’ll be too late for me to care.

At some point I hear a sound, like a crash and then someone is speaking. I don’t bother to move, just look up at the dusky, dust-coated doorway and watch as some teenagers break into my house. It’s only been a little while, maybe a month or two at most, and I’ve survived on vodka and brandy and crackers. I am too weak to move and I have no desire to anyway. My stain is fading.

 

The boys come in and find me, identical looks of sinister disgust on their faces. I like that, I like them. They remind me of us, even though they are stupid. They are together and they are here for destruction without purpose. I appreciate that. You always loved to destroy and giggle at the aftermath.

One of them grabs me by my hair, tosses me to the dirty floor. I think I can smell your blood still. I feel them hitting me only on the basest levels, and I make no move to defend myself. I am silent throughout and they eventually leave me, broken and bleeding, face pressed down into the carpet, leaving a bigger mark than you had.

I wonder at what will come after this, as the next day dawns grey and my vision starts to fog out. Everything hurts but I embrace it, clinging to the feeling of death as it comes sweeping forth. Soon, I am numb and I see dark spots swirling down, I shut my eyes and hear your voice cooing in my ear, “Welcome home, Sherlock. I’ve been waiting.”


End file.
